(picture from here)
A car pulled up in our driveway today. For a second, I let myself believe it was you. I thought maybe, if I closed my eyes and wished hard enough, you would step out of that car and we would run to each other like a cheesy movie, and within five minutes we would have covered the ten years we’ve lost. I know it was hopeless to think so. But sometimes…I risk that feeling of absolute misery for that split second of hope.
Do you like this new outfit? I bought it in honor of your birthday. I also got a haircut. Nothing major, just a trim. I wanted to look nice, in case you…came back.
I know it’s ridiculous for me to want that. I know that you can’t come back. I just want you to so bad sometimes, Mom. It kills me. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, and in that moment before I fully wake up, I think that you are in the next room over, your hair spread across the pillow, close to Dad, smelling like lilies. And then I wake up. I can’t count how many mornings I’ve wanted to roll over and sob into my pillow. I know it’s been ten years. I know I should have gotten over it. But I can’t. Sometimes, I just want you back so much it pains me. In my chest.
I miss you. Carole’s nice. But she’s not you. No one will ever be you.
I want you to come back. I want you to sing to me like you used to.
I love you. With everything in me, Mom, I love you.
Goodbye. I’ll talk to you next year.
Who knows? Maybe it’ll be in person.
